It was in the eighth grade—
My Dad left
And seemed forever gone away.
The departure sudden,
Without all the things
I wanted to say:
How much I loved . . .
How much I look forward to . . .
When I grow up like you, I . . .
Tears choked
In the flowing stream
Of all the "I-wish-I-could-have-done's."
Then—
Somewhere along the way
A thought he and I
Had always shared
Broke through death's shadow.
I realized all he gave me
Was here—
The idea he stands for,
The joy he gives,
Continuous.
Not born to be lost,
But blessing
As it's always done.
The Christ-idea in him and me
Is one.
And as ideas
In parallel journey
Nurture and love along the way,
Keep tossing to each
Love's bouquets—
There is no wall
To stay such gifts
As these.
Here we are, dear Father,
All at one
In Thee.
